FEET
We've sat on cold pavements like these,
Seen drift by obliviously
These well-shod crowds on their mission:
To spend, to buy, accumulate,
Feed their habit of consumption,
Ease the pain of their compunction.
The stuff they crave won't nourish them,
Won't satisfy the ache inside,
It's an unfulfilled flirtation,
Journey with no destination.

HANDS
I'd give you everything I have
Gladly, if I had anything.
But, like yours, my hands are empty,
Bare and grubby, tired and worn out.
All I can give you is a song
Or the gift of a new poem
That comes from inside, from my heart
Where goodness lies, hidden, alone,
A weary dog without a bone.